Of Solving and Studying
by Ms. Moonstar
Summary: One-shot alternate ending to "Study in Pink". Watson reflects on his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. Rated K  for some minor cursing.


_A/N: This is a one-shot alternate ending to the first "Sherlock" episode 'A Study in Pink.'_

_This is my first attempt at a 'Sherlock' fanfic, so please forgive me if the characters are OOC._

_Copyrights to Steven Mofatt and Mark Gatiss and the BBC. I own nothing.  
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><p>Doctor John Watson had watched as his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, left in a cab. The man had said he was just 'popping outside for some air' but Watson could not imagine why the detective would get a cab.<p>

"We're wasting our time!" Sargent Sally Donovan sneered with contempt.

Watson's eyes met Detective Inspector Lestrade, who gaze was not of annoyance, but rather disappointment. "Alright, we're done here." The police officer announced.

As he glanced out the window at the departing police police force, the words Lestrade had said echoed in his mind, _"Sherlock is a great man. And one day, if we're very very lucky, he'll be a good man." _

Yes Sherlock was indeed a great man, and quite brilliant. Already, Holmes had dazzled him with his deductions about the recent crimes, and much to his own astonishment, his own personal life. And they had only met a day previously, which led him to wonder how a friendship could have possibly occurred so soon.

'Trust issues' the mysterious man had said when he'd been escorted to a far-flung region of London.

So many people had told him to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, but he had, as that man described, 'walked the battlefield.'

Maybe they were solving crimes together because both he and Holmes were on the fringe of society. He was a soldier back from the violence of war, and Sherlock was a brilliant, if not sociopath genius who relished a good crime.

Sighing, John picked up his cane and headed towards the door, hoping to get some food before his flatmate returned, when he heard the beeping of the murdered woman's GPS of her phone.

Picking up the laptop, John studied it for a moment, his heart clenching for a moment.

_Who do we trust even if we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? _

The thought made John Watson raise his head. The phone _had_ been here in the flat and now was at the destination indicated on the map: Rowland Further Education College. They had successfully determined that the murder had the phone, and that his latest victim planted it on him. The murderer had been **here **at Baker Street, and went away again. Since Sherlock couldn't find it, it had to be...

Watson cursed under his breath and threw aside his cane, rushing down to the street to hail a cab. Immediately when he was inside one, John whipped out his phone and phone Scotland Yard.

"Yes. I need to talk to Detective Inspector Lestrade. It's an emergency!" he hissed, following the map with his eyes and giving directions to the cab driver.

It had taken what seemed like a full hour to reach the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, before he finally saw the semi-lit buildings. He rushed out of the cab, and raced into the building to the left. There were numerous rooms, and his throat clenched of trying to find Holmes before he was the victim of the murder's heinous crime.

"Sherlock," he shouted, pulling open each lecture room door without success. Rushing to the second floor and opening the first door he found, Watson saw Holmes in the adjacent buildings. sitting across the man who he could only imagine be the murderer. Holmes placed a pill in his mouth and swallow, slumping over in the chair a moment later. The cabbie, an old, shabby looking man, smiling wickedly as the detective slumped to the ground. Watson raised his gun and fired. The cab driver also hit the ground, mouth forming an 'o' shape with shock.

John rushed down the stairs and into the next building, taking two steps at a time until he reached the landing of the second floor. Not far off, he could hear the police and ambulance sirens, and opening a window, he called out as he saw Detective Lestrade, "Lestrade! We gotta find Holmes, he's on the second floor! he took the damn pill!"

Below, he heard the inspector instructed his crew "Donovan, Anderson, Sanders! Go up to the second floor and help Dr. Watson look!"

Feeling somewhat relieved at the arrival of the 'Calvary', John sped down the hall in search of Holmes, hearing the voices and footsteps of the police. Finding Holmes was his priority, and he searched with re-doubled effort. No doubt his flat-mate would already be unconscious from the poison.

Finally, Watson wrenched open a lecture room door to find his friend not slumped as he had been when last he saw him. Holmes was holding himself half upright with herculean force, head was sunk into his chest. The murder was laying on the floor, blood pooling around the man's shoulder. Watson only gave the man one glance before turning his attention to Sherlock. He'd seen plenty of violence in Afghanistan. The man had, after murdering four people, gotten what he'd deserved.

"Sherlock!" John wrenched himself out of his shock to speed to his friend's side and half carried half dragged the detective a fair distance from the murder so that he could check his condition. Instantly, John's hand's went to the consulting detective's wrist, seeking a pulse. He looked at Sherlock's face, seeing a tinge of blue beginning to color his lips. A sort of panic began to settle in his mind; how long had Holmes been without oxygen to his brain?

Not long after, he heard Sergeant Donovan yelling put for him and he had gruffly answered "In here!"

The woman gave one startled glance at Holmes before John got her attention. "Donovan, get the EMTs up here quick!"

As soon as she had dashed from the room, John focused on his flatmate, loosening the scarf around Sherlock's neck and tugging him out of his jacket. All the while, he prayed silently that he wouldn't go into respiratory arrest before the paramedics arrived.

Much to his surprise, Sherlock's eyelids half opened, "-ohn" the detective gasped.

"Sherlock, don't talk."

Sherlock seemed to pale even further and looked rather green.

Anderson had come in and had knelled next to the army doctor, "Is there anything I can do, Doctor?"

"'Derson, go 'way. Sick." Sherlock managed to huff.

"Shut it! You're in no condition to tell me-" Anderson sneered, but seeing that Holmes was indeed about to be ill, John hissed, "Turn him!"

Together, both doctor and police officer rolled Sherlock onto his side. It was fortunate perhaps, that the detective had nothing to expel, as he'd neither eaten or drank anything in the past two days. Still, some bile had exited, and found itself on the shoes of non other than Anderson.

"Shite! Bloody Bastard! He did that on purpose!" Anderson snarled, retreating to the hallway, cursing all the way.

John couldn't help but chuckle at the policeman's departing form and then glanced at his now insensate flat-mate, "I think you did that on purpose, Sherlock."

Finally, his anxiety was somewhat relieved as the EMTs arrived and began to administer oxygen.

The murder would not claim another victim.

Or at least, that's what John hoped as the gurney bearing Sherlock (who was covered in a shock blanket) was lead to the ambulance.

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><p>The doctors had long since gone from Sherlock's hospital room, leaving only John to stand vigil over his friend. They had said that the detective was a strong man for having survived being poisoned, though it was a near thing. Sherlock had gone into respiratory arrest once in the ambulance, and once in ER. His not having hydration or nourishment had weakened Sherlock's immune system, but by some miracle, had fended off the effects of the pill he had swallowed.<p>

Now Holmes lay still in the hospital bed, and infusion of several medications to counter the poison and saline to improve his blood pressure. An NG tube had been inserted to increase Sherlock's metabolism, as well as a nasal cannula.

Sherlock had continued to to surprise John. It was no surprise that sheer willpower may have contributed to survival. No doubt that his flat-mate would say '_Dying. Dying is boring_.'

Holmes was a force unlike anyone he'd seen. Being able to remember every street of London, find a murder, and outwit the police.

Donovan had explained how the crime was carried out. That cabbie took his victim in his cab to a secluded spot and gave them a choice. Either die take a chance on taking one of two pills, or be killed with a gun. He wasn't surprised that they took the pill, rather than be brutally murdered at gunpoint.

Sally Donovan had called Sherlock 'Freak' when he first met her, and there seemed to be some animosity between the detective and some of the police force. John often wondered why he put up with being called 'Freak' and was at odds with Anderson most of the time. John figured it was because, as Sherlock had mentioned, they seemed to always be out of their depth. Therefore they were in desperate need of his assistance. Holmes was a sociopath, and probably, being called names and being sneered at did not encumber his emotions. John had to admire Sherlock for that, most people would be put off when it came to making his deductions.

He had been told that Sherlock hadn't had any friends not even a colleague, and hear scoffs at the introduction for one another. It didn't bother him. Sherlock seemed to trust him and he likewise. Maybe Holmes needed a friend, someone to offset his eccentricities, to try to understand the brilliant man.

A groan from bed caught John's attention, and caused him to lean over the railing to put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Sherlock? It's alright, you're in the hospital."

Holmes was not too ill to roll his eyes. "Obvious" he said simply.

"You took that bloody pill, why?" John hissed

Sherlock half-smiled, "Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks. You risk your life to prove you're clever. "

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock replied trying to sound bored.

"Because you're an idiot." John quipped with a smile that was returned by the detective.

"Good shot, by the way."

John feigned innocence by shrugging a shoulder. "Yeah must have been from that window."

"Well, _you_ would know."

Seeing John frown and clear his throat, Sherlock glanced at him, "You alright?"

"Yeah," the army doctor replied in a tone that was not so convincing.

"You have just killed a man."

"Yeah," John muttered, "That's true." Then his eyes met Sherlock's. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"Frankly a bloody awful cabbie. " John returned.

Sherlock chuckled, "Yeah, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took to get there."

John snickered. "Dinner? I'm sure you want to get that NG tube out."

"Anything but hospital food. Disgusting." Sherlock muttered.

"I'm sure Anderson is really not going to enjoy working with you. Not after puking all over his shoes."

Both of them looked at one another before breaking into chuckles.

_Nothing ever happens to me _John had told his therapist. But now that wasn't the case. Living in 221 B Baker Street and solving crimes with Sherlock Holmes would certainly not be a dull life.

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><p><strong>The End<strong>


End file.
